


Demonology 101

by technicallysizzlingcloud



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallysizzlingcloud/pseuds/technicallysizzlingcloud
Summary: There are four, count ‘em, four people Emma Swan blames for her current predicament as her eyes fight to open against the throbbing in the back of her head, the unfairly–unnatural–blue eyes swarming in and out of her vision alarmingly not helping anymore than the grating sound of his–its?–concerned babbling.Because there is no way a demon just appeared in her kitchen. Just, no way.





	Demonology 101

There are four, count ‘em, four people Emma Swan blames for her current predicament as her eyes fight to open against the throbbing in the back of her head, the unfairly–unnatural–blue eyes swarming in and out of her vision alarmingly not helping anymore than the grating sound of his–its?–concerned babbling.

One) Dr. Hopper, who told her that Henry’s interest in magic was absolutely harmless and quite natural for his age.

Two) David, the seriously too-Midwest-for-real-life cop she drops her skips off to most frequently who seems intent on adopting her and her son and who bought Henry what seems to be an actual magic colouring book.

Three) That skip that ran last night, making her stay up till 3 a.m. cutting across yards and dodging into alleys for fifteen blocks to catch him–making her tired enough to cut herself while making a damned grilled cheese, which let her blood touch that, again, apparently literally magic, colouring book.

Four) Emma herself for however many kittens she drowned in the past life to deserve a grade a headache–most likely a concussion, almost definitely a concussion–from slipping on her floor after…whatever just popped out from a portal on her kitchen floor.

“”Sorry lass It’s just usually people know when they form the blood tie after making the sacred hexagram and–”

She’s going to kill her son. Eventually. After all these people already on her list. Which includes her so that could be–

“–and it’s his drawing with your blood so I’m not quite sure–”

That. That wakes her up.

Emma cranes her pounding head off the cool tiles and faces the…whatever that’s in her kitchen. (An unfairly attractive whatever, in a leather duster and tight-fitting pants that she can still kinda make out her toaster through.)

“Wait. Wait. Is Henry involved in this? What do you want from him?” Because Emma Swan is a lot of things but a satellite mom is not one of those. She fought for her son. Through the Court System when he was born, through three jobs before he was four, through judgmental stares of soccer moms and housewives since she’s changed her schedule to always be able to pick him up from school (or David, but whatever) she’s trying.

She loves her son. Loves him enough to pick her aching head off the blessedly cold tile floors to stare down the thing that has just appeared in her kitchen.

There’s a…look (she can see her microwave through his absurdly perfect jaw, okay?) on his face, flashing so fast before his entire brow softens and he…floats? (Definitely floats, Jesus what is her life?) across her atrocious kitchen tile (red and black, seriously? Is this the 50s?) over to her.

“I won’t–I’m not here to hurt the lad. Or you, by the way. I understand I’ve startled you, but I can assure you I’m not what you think.” There’s a dark lock on his forehead that sways as he speaks and there’s a hand scratching behind his ear as he says it. It’s all stuttered and apologetic and Emma swears that if he wasn’t actually levitating an inch off the ground, he would seem human. Bashful almost.

Fuck, she must have hit her head hard.

Emma stumbles, barely missing the–mirage, fuck she can’t think right–in her kitchen as she half-falls into her couch. She’s got to get her phone. David can take her to the ER and she can get her head checked out because–

–”What the fuck?” Her hallucination just appeared through her goddamn phone. It’s like, in his liver. Or whatever.

“Lass, I’m not sure you want to do that. Well, you may want to visit a healer but those talking devices aren’t going to make me go away.”

Oh god. Her hallucination is bargaining with her. Where is her pepper spray? Thank fuck Henry is at school.

“If you’re real,” She is not bargaining with a mirage. She is not. “Pick up Henry’s stupid colouring book and move it.”

He sighs, scratching the back of his head again before waving his hand and–

Damn. Damn. Damn.

She really hopes Henry wasn’t lying about liking Mary Margaret, their upstairs neighbor, babysitting him because she is clearly going to a psych ward as she just imagined his book moved from the kitchen counter to the end table beside the couch.

“Love, a name would really help here unless you want me to–” He’s still scratching behind his ear, even as he makes the bumfuck colouring book do another little jig in the air with his fingers before returning it to the table.

Some faint, nagging memory about names and spells Henry had babbled at her rose in her hand and Emma is 99% sure this is the result of a concussion, but on the off-chance it’s not… “Leia. My name is Leia.”

The figure sighs, bright blue eye dropping momentarily and a tiny furrow appearing between them before he cleared his throat, seeming to come to a decision and making a flourishing bow before her. “Well then, Killian Jones, daemon extraordinaire at your service for any malfeasance or mischief you wish to cause.”

The large hand of her clock has never sounded so loud.

“Er…Leia, lass, did you hear my clearly? I saw that rather nasty collision with the floor. Do you understand me?” His tone is slow and soft as he says it, smiling gently as if talking to an…

Oh god, the demon in her kitchen thinks she has fucking brain damage. He’s still waving his hand a little pathetically at her face, looking about an inch from cooing at her when Emma snaps.

His transparent hand comes a little too close to her nose and she recoils back, clutching her arms over her chest and scowling. “Stop that. I’m fine. Now what the hell did you mean by saying you’re a…demon or whatever?”

It has the audacity to sigh at her. “Daemon technically but that’s hardly the immediate issue. Daemons are otherworldly creatures, typically summoned through a blood offering given to their particular pentagram or in this case–” He gestures to the innocent looking paper laying prone on her kitchen island coloured in happy red and blue crayon until the angry red smudge from her finger all across it. “Typically, the summoner has a wish or an agenda of their own. By your shock and the quality of this drawing I am going to assume–”

“Henry’s an awesome artist. He’s ten for god’s sakes. Shit, wait. I’ve got to stop talking to you. You’re not real and shit–I have to go to work.”

“Love, I assure you that I am just as real as–”

Her phone starts ringing at the same time, seeming to startle the thing a waft back from her and she eyes her boss’s ringtone. Probably wondering why she wasn’t there to pick up her little mic and gear yet.

Rolling herself to her feet, Emma holds her hand out towards it in a universal gesture to back the fuck up, eyes narrowing. “You are a hallucination caused by my general lack of coordination and the universe having a real biting wit. I am going to work, and probably getting an MRI done now that I think about it. When I come back, you’ll be gone.”

The demon seems to shrug into himself as Emma busies around her apartment, fishing her keys out of the couch and snatching her purse off the kitchen stool. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and has one last minute retreat to the freezer to grab a bag of peas to rest against the back of her head.

“As you wish lass, but I’m afraid it won’t be that simple. I’m bound to your will until you–”

The slams the door shut as she leaves.

So much for that.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to take Henry tonight? Or I could call Mary Margaret and sleep on your couch just to be sure–

” It’s sweet, really, the way David worries about them. It’s something Emma is happy Henry has, a decent man in his life who cares about him. It’s more than she knows she deserves with the way she treats him sometimes: veiled excuses to avoid backyard barbecues and his girlfriend’s PTA mixers because Emma is Emma and there’s only so much All American Dream she can take before she gets itchy.

So truly, David is great but this is the trillionth time he’s offered the same thing-

“David you heard the doctor. I’m fine. I don’t even feel it anymore. I just need some old fashioned sleep.” The man has actually walked her to her door after picking her son up from school and meeting her at the Urgent Care up the road so she pretends she doesn’t hear the disparaging comments he makes under his breath about the qualifications of the Urgent Care NP as she jiggles her apartment key into the lock.

“Yes but what if–”

“David,” Emma snaps before drawing a long, deep, breath. She opens the door enough for the skinny ball of energy that she calls her kid to slip through despite the backpack that dwarfes him.

She rather envies his escape.

She turns to David, placing a rather manipulative hand on his shoulder. (She’s got to be the least tactile person she knows sorta-friends with someone who believes in hugs instead of handshakes and she knows he’s a decent enough guy not to bring it up but–) Cue the wide, bright eyes and slight grin that belies thoughts of comradeship and breaking down walls all throughout his sugar-drop brain.

Emma kinda feels bad, but she’s also kinda exhausted and while not concussed definitely in need of some Advil and sleep and she just needs David to go home

She is beyond glad she didn’t mention her little tete-a-tete with an imaginary leather-dressed demon earlier. He probably would have moved in

“David,” She’s sure her attempt at a reassuring smile comes across a little closer to a grimace but hey, she’s initiated contact so whatever. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done today. If anything changes, I promise to call but I’ve had a hell of a day and I’d really, really like to go to sleep now.”

He finally nods, stepping out of her space so she can slide closer to the door. “See you both at Sunday night dinner this week?”

Her smile this time is a little more genuine as she slips her hand to her doorknob. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Then he’s gone and the door is clicking shut behind her and she takes a moment of pure self indulgence to rest her entire frame against the cool wood because this day from hell is finally over–

“Mom, mom!” Her son chatters, forcing Emma to open her eyes and spy him standing in the kitchen, backpack still on and dark eyes shining with excitement as he gestures to–

Fuck. Oh fuck.

“You didn’t tell me we had a daemon staying with us!”

–The vaguely transparent, leather-duster wearing thing that she perhaps, did not in fact dream up.

She starts, her mind whirling in a million different directions. “You can see it to?”

She could swear an actual pout form on its face. “Love, I did let you know that my name is–”

“Killian Jones!” Henry burst in, rocking on his heels in glee. “Mom, Killian said that he came from my drawing and he’s really sorry that he scared you into hitting your head but he made the kitchen light bulb flicker and–

She wants to deny it. Emma Swan really, truly, with every fiber of her jaded being wants to deny that Killian Jones, the demon, is floating in her kitchen; but there is no reason Henry should know the name of something that existed just in her head.

Speaking of which–

She jumps, propelling herself into the open kitchen so fast she clips herself slightly on the breakfast bar in an urge to put herself between her son and the unknown. She turns, forcing Henry behind her despite his cut-off protest and widens her stance. Her fingers itch for the gun she has strapped to her side but he doesn’t seem solid so she’s not sure how effective anything she does is going to be. It’s terrifying.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt him!” Emma blurts, her heart pounding in her ears until she feels vaguely light-headed, her throat closing in fear because she’s not sure how she’s going to protect Henry but maybe she can distract it long enough for him to run to the parking lot and praying David hasn’t left yet.

There’s a flash of anger in those strangely blue eyes and he half-snarls, “I did no such–” just as Henry pipes up behind her, tiny hands latching onto the red leather of her jacket.

“Moooom. Mom. He wasn’t. We were just talking. His name is Killian Jones and he’s over a hundred years old and he used to be a pirate but now he’s a daemon and he has magic and–”

“Henry run outside and see if David hasn’t left yet. “ She works on keeping her voice steady, keeping herself physically in between her son and the apparently magical pirate.

She can hear him roll his eyes behind her, tugging on her jacket again. “Mom, no. He’ll just think we’re crazy. Only people who summon a daemon can see him. Besides, we woke him up. He’s not here to hurt us, right?”

His hair brushes against her hip as he peers over him, nodding to…the thing that is now outright scowling at her. At the sight of Henry’s head however, his features seem to soften a touch. “That’s right lad. As I told your mother earlier, I have no intention to do either of you harm.”

There’s a demon in her kitchen and it’s fucking exasperated with her. She’s going to kick it in the shins…or something.

Her son, the optimist, however, seems to have decided that promise was enough, fully coming around her legs to stand next to her. Emma makes some sort of noise in her throat that they both ignore.

“Can you apparate?”

Killian Jones makes a ridiculous sort of twirl and smirks, wagging his ringed fingers–a bright shock of red catches the light–before vanishing on the spot.

Good. Maybe he’s gone.

–And appearing in a cloud of gray smoke ten seconds later, inches above her kitchen island.

“Awesome! Can you create fire–”

“BED! Bed. It’s bedtime.”

“Aw, moooom.”

There’s the general groaning and bargaining that tends to accompany convinces a ten year old to change into Harry potter pajamas and turn lights out, without the excitement of an otherworldly guest a room over. But then there’s the closing words on their latest chapter of The Magic School Bus and Emma watches has his eyelids droop further down until she catches a faint snore and sets the paperback on the nightstand for tomorrow. She switches off the lamp, shutting the door quietly behind her and inhaling. Once. Twice.

She’s not surprised he’s waiting for her, a human, almost tender curl of his lips as he floats a healthy distance away.

She’s faced prison. Homelessness. Single motherhood. She can do this.

“You won’t hurt him?” Emma isn’t sure her innate lie detector will work on…whatever he is but hes got normal (attractive) enough features that she should be able I catch a tic or a tell just the same.

His blue eyes widen, just a little, but there is a serious set to his jaw and a nearly earnest flex of his arm. “You have my word lass.”

Emma stares. She searches, tasking in every inch from the way his hair seems to move with the air even as he holds himself still and the wide, solid set to his stance despite floating and–

She believes him.

“Goodnight then.”

He startles back when she speaks and Emma turns to her bedroom before remembering the whole phasing through walls thing and wheels around to threaten to cut his metaphorical balls off if he even thinks of taking a peek but he looks–

Hes mouthing words, face awestruck and eyes terribly dark, hand outstretched as if to catch something.

Their eyes meet. He swallows. “Goodnight then.”

The words are the barest whisper on her skin, causing a rippling sensation.

She turns back to her bedroom without saying anything at all.

Emma begs off work the next day using her headache as an excuse. Her boss is displeased but what the fuck ever. A portal didn’t appear in her kitchen yesterday.

She has to fight Henry to school. He wants to help. He knows more about magic then she does. Killian isn’t going to hurt him. It’s so unfair.

Hes nearly late for the bus, pouting at her the entire time with his ridiculously large backpack and khakis that are showing a little too much ankle. But he goes, and Emma will count that was a victory.

And Emma Swan? She does something she hasn’t done alone since she was s girl. She goes to the library.

The librarian is perfectly charming and incredibly accommodating, but as Emma slowly accrued a veritable mountain of books titled everything from Beginners Dark Arts to Our Dark Master: Blood Ritual and Human Sacrifice she started to look a little…horrified. Horrified was the right word.

To be fair if Emma saw a grown ass woman apparently studying occult in the middle of the day on a Wednesday, shed probably want to alert someone too, but what could she say? Don’t worry I just want to know about the demon my kid and I accidentally summoned?

Yeah.

So she tries to shoot the poor woman a warm smile that must come across as creepy by the way she crosses herself and immediately seems to flee, but what the fuck ever.

There’s a goddamn demon in her kitchen. Daemon. Whatever.


End file.
